


Suspension

by De Orakle (Delphi)



Series: Suspension [1]
Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Drama, M/M, Oblivious, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Watching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-01-01
Updated: 1999-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-10 06:18:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/De%20Orakle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's just something about Ezra's...suspender?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suspension

**Author's Note:**

> Exact date of publication unknown.

The sun tells him it's been an hour at least since the suspender caught his notice. One hour on the trail, maybe half-again that. Anyway, it's been driving him crazy ever since.

The suspender is Ezra's, of course—who else would go to such length just to stir up Nathan's blood? It's his right one, some silky black nonsense with a silver clip that catches the early morning sunlight. And every time it bounces along with Ezra's horse's gait, the glare flashes right in the corner of his left eye.

Wheeling around to Ezra's left isn't very practical, since Ezra can draw from that side. Riding shoulder to shoulder makes no difference; a pace behind, a pace ahead. It's a big sky, and that itty-bitty clip can't help but reflect the sun—unless of course it was hooked up proper to Ezra's trousers like it's supposed to be.

"Are you feeling poorly, Mr. Jackson?"

He grits his teeth. He stops shuffling himself around then, as he doesn't much care to explain himself to Ezra. So far, all he's had to say to the man all morning is: "Ready...nope...north."

And why should he have to say anything? This is just Ezra, baiting him as usual, this time without even opening his mouth. All right, he knows he's being petty if not downright foolish, but he was up late patching up some ranch hands after the skirmish outside of Bucklin's Grooming last night, and he can think of five other people he'd rather be keeping company with this morning. People who kept their suspenders fastened, when they wore them at all. If Chris hadn't made himself _very_ clear when they left at dawn that whatever problems he and Ezra may have better get solved _fast_, he would have sent Ezra back and taken his chances escorting this Marsten fellow back to town on his own.

He shuts his eyes, feeling the rhythm of his horse under him and the swiftly fading morning cool against his face. If he just doesn't think on it, it can't bother him none.

There.

He opens his eyes, setting his view at a lead of twenty or so yards. Just another hour, just keeping his eyes forward, just pretending that Ezra's not even there. He lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, taking in the terrain's slow shift from unending horizontal flat to a dizzying mesa with an appreciative eye and a complete disregard for the fleeting flash of light flickering to his left. Again. And again. And again. Not that he's paying any mind to it. Sure is a beautiful morning.

...just how the hell can the man not notice that his suspender came undone? Ezra's so fussy when it comes to his clothes, always making sure his hat brim is bent just right, that his cravat is straight. Even now, knowing full well they'll be riding home in high noon heat, the fool's wearing a full three-piece suit. And Nathan is sure as sugar that under that fancy jacket, there lies the whole complicated leather rigging that holds Ezra's hidden Derringer; and he's just as certain that not a strap is out of place. Yet the man can't figure out that his pants are only half hitched up?

Frowning, he slides his gaze over to the source of his annoyance. As usual, Ezra's riding with his proper stance, holding the reins in his left hand, his right resting on his hip, sweeping back that side of his jacket. There, with every slight bounce in the saddle, the suspender's clip jumps into view just past Ezra's hand. From his slightly higher viewpoint, he can see it skirt against the top of Ezra's pants, unsteadily brushing the black cotton. Then...up again to catch the sun in a bright reflection.

An absurd urge takes him: to steer over to Ezra's side and clip that damned suspender himself like some mother fixing up her unruly child. The thought, at first rather funny, makes him feel a little...strange when he pictures it. A little puzzled, a little curious, he conjures the image again, trying to pinpoint the feeling. There it goes again, a warm twisting feeling, like a blush in the pit of his stomach when he imagines slipping his hand inside Ezra's waistband to fasten the suspender...

Rather guiltily, he takes another look at Ezra, trying to quell the queer tightening that's tugging at his insides. Another flash of the suspender. He winces at the brightness of it. Then, inexplicably, he swallows hard as Ezra leans forward to give a little comforting stroke to his mount's shoulder. It's obvious, if you were looking closely, that Ezra's pants dip ever so slightly on this side. Even through his neatly tucked in shirt, you can see the hipbone protruding just a little from the waistband before his jacket follows forward, blocking any view.

If you were looking closely.

Which Nathan isn't.

Warmth colors his face as he drops his gaze away from his companion.

"Mr. Jackson?"

He doesn't quite jump. "Yeah, Ezra?"

Ezra's looking at him out of the corner of his eye, as if he's just a vague distraction from the terribly entrancing view before him. Nathan grits his teeth.

"You look flushed. Might I tempt you with a drink—albeit a lukewarm one?"

This is translated with the even brighter flash of Ezra's flask coming out of his jacket pocket. Nathan accepts it, with perfect timing it seems, as his mouth conveniently runs dry as his fingers brush against Ezra's. He holds the warm canteen for a moment before unstopping it. Ezra keeps shooting those short little looks at him, most likely making sure that Nathan doesn't take too much of what's probably very old and expensive liquor.

Heat and thirst winning out, Nathan swallows a reprimand at Ezra's ease with drinking so early, and then swallows a generous mouthful of the smoothest spirit he's ever tasted. He gulps it down quickly, then braces himself for the kick, holding out the flask for Ezra.

He swallows again, moving his tongue around his mouth.

Nothing.

No burn, no real aftertaste save a faint trace of metal. He licks his lips and frowns.

"This is water."

Pointing out the obvious, but someone has to do it.

Ezra doesn't reply, just tips the flask toward him in slight salute before taking a drink of his own.

The seconds inch by in a dying crawl through the desert until it's too late for Nathan to pick up the conversation. A minute, then another, the silence stretching tight between them. He shifts slightly in his saddle.

Hmph...water.

Lord, but he doesn't understand that man.

He takes another glance skyward, taking note of the sun's changing position, then blinks blearily as another tiny flash of light from his left catches his eye.

And damned if he can keep his mind off that suspender.


End file.
